


A Real Soggy Cobbler

by christah88



Category: Insatiable (TV 2018)
Genre: Abrupt Realization, Banter, Firefighters, Humor, Innuendo, Kissing While Wet, M/M, More Sexual Tension, Revenge, Ridiculous Obliviousness, Sexual Tension, waterfalls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christah88/pseuds/christah88
Summary: Bob A. is on the hunt for vengeance. Bob B. is on the hunt for Bob A.





	A Real Soggy Cobbler

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this was really fun. Barnstrong!
> 
> Set one year before the series, but probably not.

So the Peach Cobbler Crumble Pie Princess Pageant Board thought they could disqualify Bob Armstrong’s star pupil Susie Sanders over an innocent little nip slip, did they?

That Susie didn’t stand a tapioca’s chance in a bread pudding slice of winning was beside the point. It had taken Bob five weeks just to get her to walk, pose, turn and walk in the right order. He wasn’t harboring illusions that she was going to stun them all in the interview with her brilliance. He knew very well that Magnolia Barnard would sweep the prize. But he’d worked hard on getting that empty-headed freckle face ready for competition, and he wanted to see her nail the walk, pose, turn and walk, dammit!

And when would they stop with the pearl-clutching already? It had almost been fifteen years since Janet Jackson freed the ta-tas on national television. So what if Susie had gotten a little over-excited when she’d seen her family in the audience and jumped up and down, waving like Kate Middleton on crack. So what if her bodice had ripped right down the front, sequins flying every which way. So what if she hadn’t been wearing a brassiere underneath. So _what_ if the ensuing reaction at her exposure was a bit undignified and highly distracting.

Did the Board mean to tell him that all of that was against the _rules?_

Apparently it was.

Well, Bob huffed to himself, Bruno Magli cap toe Oxfords clicking down the linoleum hallway floor, if he and Susie couldn’t compete, then he’d see to it that no one was crowned Peach Cobbler Crumble Pie Princess that day.

He rounded a corner and stalked past the darkened box office, slowing when he noticed his reflection in the glass. He tightened his silk jacquard tie and sniffed, pleased with his appearance. Then he turned on his heel and continued down the hallway.

He became aware of someone following him just before he reached the backstage doors. His scalp tingled beneath his toupee, like it always did when he was being watched.

He turned and casually pushed through the doors on the opposite side of the hallway into the dressing area. Makeup, clothing and various accoutrements cluttered the floor and tables within, but the room was quiet, empty. The girls must be waiting in the wings. He wondered what portion of the contest they were on. Susie had been going to do her bird-call impressions for the talent competition. On second thought, Bob could be grateful that he wouldn’t have to listen to that again.

Footsteps approached the door from the hallway. He looked around quickly and ducked behind a rack of evening wear.

Beneath the swaying hems, he saw a pair of richly gleaming wingtips enter the room. His eyebrows lifted in appreciation.

His focus was distracted by a stray feather tickling at his neck. He turned and tucked it carefully back into place on a sewn-in boa neckline. He rolled his eyes at the off-the-shoulder mermaid-cut gown. Sequins _and_ a feather boa? Oh, but that cornflower blue tea-length dress with the flared skirt was simply _darling-_

“Bob?”

He jumped.

Hangers scraped as two hands pushed the gowns aside. Hot Bob Barnard blinked down at him, a smug smile curling his lips.

No! Bob chastised himself. For God’s sake, he should get to be Hot Bob in his own internal monologue!

“Well, look at you,” Barnard drawled, “hiding in the tinsel.”

Of _course_ Bob Brazen Bangle-head Barnard found him before he could exact his revenge! Bob straightened, fuming.

“Hello, Ho- uh, Bob,” he coughed, tugging at the hem of his peak-lapel suit coat. Damn! He almost said ‘Hot Bob’ right in front of him. That would be the capper to this diet cherry soda and pop rocks explosion of a day. He could just imagine Barnard's expression. A surprised little smirk would spread across his stupid face, and then he’d speak to him in that detestable, gravelly voice of his, all low and smooth like a yoga instructor. He’d like to see Bob Barnard stretched in a perfect downward dog!

No doubt he’d manage it, Bob reminded himself sourly. Bob Bendable Buttocks Barnard would find a way.

“What are you doing here, Bob?” Barnard asked.

Bob stuck his nose in the air. “I am…” he tried to think, but his mind refused to cooperate. It was as empty as a bowl of pipe dreams. He sniffed irritably. “I’m allowed to be here, Bob,” he said. He picked at the sequined sleeve of the mermaid disaster. “I am,” he paused, “setting things straight,” he finished, quiet like a vow.

“Now, Bob,” Barnard said, one immaculate eyebrow lifting in a delicate arch, “you’ve never set anything straight in your life.”

Bob’s jaw dropped, his mouth opening in an ‘o’ of offense.

“No,” Barnard continued with ringing satisfaction, “Bob Armstrong, I do declare you are here to exact your revenge.”

Bob’s O face turned into one of surprise.

“That’s not- Why would-” he stuttered and forced a breathy little laugh, “I’m not-” He gave up and glared. “How did you know?” he demanded.

“Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,” Bob Barnard said, shaking his head, lips curling into an impossibly smugger smirk. He ducked through the rack of jeweled gowns, cognac wingtips crowding Bob’s Bruno Maglis. Other Bob (also hot) shuffled backwards quickly, opening up the space between them, but Barnard continued to advance. He stopped when Bob scuffed up against the drywall, shoulder blades pressed flat with nowhere to run.

“I know you, Bob,” Barnard said. “You feel like you haven’t been seen, like all your good work has gone to waste. And all over a misplaced nipple.” Bob cringed to hear him say it, but Barnard was caught up in his indignation on Bob’s behalf. “It is positively ridiculous. My nipples,” he placed his hand over his chest, “are on display nearly every day and no one has started a riot.”

“I know,” Bob said, flicking his hand at Hot Bob’s torso for emphasis. “Really, Bob- we _all_ know.”

Barnard nodded, serious. He looked off in the distance and leaned a hand against the wall. Bob shrank back, eyes flicking from Barnard’s arm to his face, but Barnard didn’t look at him. Instead, he unbuttoned his blazer and placed his other hand in his slacks pocket. Bob could have squawked in exasperation. His dress shirt was open in a deep V, dark wiry hairs tickling at the placket. Really, Barnard was going to catch pneumonia one of these days if he kept exposing himself this way!

“And, you know me,” Barnard sighed, “I’ve always had a really gigantic, just completely massive boner,” Bob choked, “for justice,” Barnard finished, meeting his eyes. “I saw you sneaking out the back of the auditorium so I decided to see what you’re up to.”

Bob was starting to feel rather annoyed. Only it wasn’t his usual brand of irritation, like when he was on a juice cleanse. No, it was that special kind of annoyed that only Bob Barnard managed to stir up in him. It made him jittery and uncomfortable, like his collar was buttoned too tight, and a little bit embarrassed, too, only he didn’t want to be embarrassed, he didn’t have any reason to be, and the fact that he was feeling embarrassed in front of Bob Beachbody Barnard only made him more annoyed, and what kind of torment did Bob Bloodhound Barnard mean by following him and exacting this little interrogation?

Bob bent at the waist like a deflating tube man and slid underneath Barnard’s outstretched arm.

“Well,” he sniffed, straightening up and flicking invisible specks of lint off his lapel, “you found me out. I was going to- to cut nipple holes in all the evening gowns.” He shook his head at himself. Barnard’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’m such a monster. Good thing you were here to stop me. Well, bye then,” he turned toward the door.

“Wait just a minute,” Barnard said. Bob felt the tension crackle down his shoulder blades. He turned slowly and fixed him with an innocent look. Barnard gave him the once over, eyes lingering on his belt buckle. Bob didn’t blame him. It was a Givenchy. “Where are your scissors?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” Bob returned with signature sass.

Barnard set him with a paternal look, brown eyes warm. A frisson of heat snagged through Bob’s stomach. It was quite unpleasant.

“If you were fixing to cut booby holes in all these dresses,” Barnard explained, “where are your scissors?”

“Oh,” Bob said, pinned like a bug on a spreading board (or like a man tied down, ankles and wrists to the bedposts- where had that thought come from?). “Right,” he said. “I was gonna use my teeth.” He smiled, baring his incisors.

“I bet you were,” Barnard growled. Bob’s smile faltered.

He’d noticed this about Bob Barnard before. When he was around large groups, or even small groups, just two or three people at a time, he was personable, friendly, charming. It was no surprise he’d tipped his hat at the Mayor’s office. With his charisma and (Bob grudgingly admitted) chiseled good looks, it wasn’t hard to picture him there. But one-on-one interactions were a different story. Bob had noticed that when Barnard was in the company of just one other person, a very odd energy permeated the encounter. It would swing from challenging, to almost nurturing, to giddy, and back to challenging again at the drop of a hat. It made him rather uncomfortable. He wondered if anyone else had noticed it.

“Give it up, Bob,” he snapped. “I know you’re trying to catch me in a sin, but I am not falling for it.”

“Bob, you knucklehead,” Barnard chuckled, “I’m trying to sin _with_ you.”

Bob stared at him. “And just what does that mean?” he demanded, then wiggled his finger in Barnard’s face. “And no weird half-explanations while you look at me like I’m supposed to understand what you’re not saying.”

Barnard pouted, looking very put out. Bob bounced on his toes at the reaction.

“Fine,” he said. “Bob, I’d like to help you exact your revenge on the Peach Cobbler Crumble Pie Princess Pageant for being kicked out over a minor wardrobe malfunction.”

Bob gaped at him. “You would? But Magnolia-”

“Magnolia won the Who’s Your Daddy? father-daughter pageant competition last month, with me, as no doubt you recall.” Barnard winked at him. Bob looked skyward for patience. “She’s already qualified for regionals. And,” he shrugged, “you have a knack for causing mayhem, Bob. It’s a talent that I do not possess and that I quite admire. I want to help, get my hands dirty, see how the sausage gets made.”

Bob considered him. He wouldn’t put it past Bob Backstabbing Barnard to befriend him with this charade, only to turn him in, disgraced, to the Pageant Board. But he sounded sincere, even for Bob Beguiling-

“So, tell me,” Barnard leaned in close, eyes bright, “what’s your master plan?”

“I’m going to activate the fire sprinkler system over the judges’ table,” Bob said, then blinked. He hadn’t meant to say it, but something in Barnard’s playful expression tipped him over the edge.

Barnard nodded, considering. Bob waited with baited breath.

Hot Bob grinned, eyes crinkling. “That’ll be one soggy cobbler,” he said.

Bob snorted, surprised. “That’s terrible,” he said, unconsciously leaning closer. “You might say, I’m going to rain on their parade.”

Barnard chuckled softly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Maybe then they’ll learn not to steal your thunder.”

Bob clapped, giddy. “Tomorrow’s headline will say, ‘The Day the Peach Cobbler Crumble Pie Princess Got Wet.’”

They laughed. Barnard clutched his shoulder, fingers squeezing.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted their merriment. Bob straightened, shrugging off Barnard’s hand.

A pageant girl stood before them. Endless ringlets of gleaming blonde hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her lips were painted cherry red. She eyed Bob Barnard up and down, ignoring (Other) Bob.

“You’re Magnolia’s dad, right?” she said, coiling a strand of hair around her finger. She smiled, white teeth flashing.

Barnard’s smile had a plastic-y look to it. “Why, yes, little lady, I am,” he said. “But let me tell you – before you say anything else – that you are quite simply barking up the wrong tree. Off with you now, toodle loo.” He waggled his fingers toward the vanities. The girl turned on her heel, offended, and stomped away.

Bob was surprised to feel another laugh bubbling up from his stomach. “Toodle loo?” he repeated, voice choked.

Barnard looked at him, eyebrows creased. “What?”

Bob shook his head and pushed past him, fighting to control his grin. “Let’s go, then,” he said over his shoulder and yanked the door open. Barnard’s shoes scuffed across the linoleum in his haste to catch up.

Well, what did you know. Bob Button-up Barnard was going to help him get revenge. Bob wondered briefly if including him was such a good idea, then brushed his uneasiness aside. If they were caught in the act, he could always say it was Barnard’s idea.

He crossed the hall and eased the backstage door open. They slithered through and crept along the wall, hiding in the shadows. Lights beamed and ruffles in every color flounced between the curtains. One of the girls was answering a question, something about hair care and world peace. Bob tiptoed ahead, one hand on the back wall.

“The ladder should be right around- What are you doing?” He shielded his eyes. Light poured from Barnard’s phone. “Put that away!” he hissed, and Barnard quickly pocketed it. “What are you thinking?” Bob demanded. “It's like this is your first time engaging in a simple revenge plot.”

“It is,” Barnard whispered back, voice breathy. “I feel like a virgin.”

“Well, keep your pants on,” Bob said. “You can’t use your flashlight or someone will spot us. We’ll just have to close our eyes for a minute so they’ll adjust to the darkness.”

Barnard agreed, so Bob closed his eyes and counted to sixty. When he opened them again, he jumped back, startled.

“Jeez, Bob,” he said, “your night vision must be terrible. You were nearly on top of me!”

“Was I? Dear me, I do apologize,” Barnard said, not sounding apologetic in the least bit.

They reached the ladder mounted against the wall, extending up to the system of catwalks crisscrossing forty feet overhead. Bob waved Barnard ahead of him, but Barnard shook his head.

“No, no, you’re the pro,” he said, bowing. “I am the student, prostrate at my master’s feet.”

“Alrighty then,” Bob said. He turned to the ladder and rolled his eyes. That Bob Barnard was a bonafide weirdo. He couldn’t fathom how he was the only one to see it. He grasped the railing and started to climb.

“Bob,” he hissed halfway up the ladder after Barnard’s hand brushed his thigh for the second time, “you’re following too close; I’m gonna kick you in the head.”

Barnard pulled back and they made it the rest of the way without incident. Bob mounted the catwalk, shaking his head at himself. This might have been more trouble than it was worth, dragging such a beginner along.

“What now?” Barnard asked, pulling himself up to the landing. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. His eyes were bright, his face suffused with a childish kind of delight. It made him look younger, years younger, and Bob was suddenly awash in the memory of his friend from the sunrise days of youth.

Barnard had taught him how to swim, he suddenly remembered. That was back when they were, what, nine? Ten? Barnard still went by Bobby in those days. Of course, Bob’s mom also called _him_ Bobby, so there never was a time when they didn’t use the same name.

He’d dragged him down to the pond out behind the Barnards’ sprawling back yard. It was hot, blazing hot, the sun freckling Bobby A.’s fair skin and turning Bobby B.’s a golden brown. Gnats swarmed every few feet, and the pond was dotted with lily pads.

“I don’t want to,” Bobby A. whined, fanning himself against an oak tree.

“C’mon, Bobby!” Bobby B. wheedled, already toeing off his sneakers. “We’ll sit in the sun afterwards and dry off in five minutes, tops. My mom won’t even know!”

Bobby A. sighed and sank to the ground, cradled in the oak tree’s roots. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll watch.”

“Don’t be a goose,” Bobby B. said, standing in front of him. “It’s too hot _not_ to swim.”

Bobby A. pulled a clump of grass from the ground and scowled at it. “I don’t know how,” he said. Even then, he hated to admit he didn’t know how to do something.

Fingers clamped around his wrist, and he was abruptly yanked to his feet, his friend’s arm around his neck. He found his footing and shot Bobby B. an exasperated look.

“It ain’t a thing!” Bobby B. exclaimed. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” He pulled him down to the water, ignoring his steady stream of excuses. “Bobby,” he said finally, when they’d reached the water’s edge and Bobby A. stood rooted like a haughty statue, arms crossed, nose tilted towards the sky. “Stop worrying and trust me – I’ll never let you drown.”

Bobby A. relented at his earnest expression.

“Besides,” Bobby B. said as they waded in, “this here’s a muskrat watering hole; water barely comes to your knees.”

“Bob?” Barnard hissed presently, waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” Bob turned away, distracted. “This way,” he said and stepped carefully down the catwalk.

They walked slowly, keeping to one side of the theater. Bob breathed through his nose and rolled his steps so as to make no noise, fingers flared out to the side for balance. Barnard followed, close enough to be his shadow.

They edged around a short hallway that took them past the proscenium and into the auditorium. Bob held his breath as they crept around the first row of stage lights without being spotted from the audience. They stopped where the catwalk branched off, bridging across the theater. Bob pointed at Barnard and then down the suspended metal walkway.

Barnard shook his head and waved at him, turning to gaze down at the action on stage.

Magnolia was performing her talent, a dance routine involving scarves, tap shoes, a quick change from an evening gown to a sequined leotard,  a little bit of lip-syncing, and a double back-handspring into a full twist layout. The audience went wild with cheers and wolf-whistles. Bob grudgingly put his hands together. Barnard grasped the railing and watched, an enamored smile softening the sharp lines of his face. Bob found himself distracted again and missed the final few beats of Magnolia’s performance.

“She was perfect, wasn’t she?” Barnard whispered, eyes gleaming as the music died out and Magnolia skipped off the stage.

“She’s something else,” Bob agreed. _Like her father,_ he thought.

“Can we move on now?” he continued as the blonde girl from the dressing room stepped out and began a warbling rendition of Miley Cyrus’ _Party in the USA._

“God, yes, please,” Barnard said, motioning him along.

They crept down the catwalk, staying as far in the middle of the platform as they could so as not to be seen from the audience. The judges table was directly beneath them. Bob looked up, squinting.

“Damn,” he stopped halfway down the walkway. Barnard looked at him quizzically. Bob motioned him closer. Barnard’s eyebrows slid up, but he leaned in. Bob put his lips to his ear and breathed, “It’s too high. I can’t reach it.”

He leaned back and pointed up to the ceiling, where a row of sprinklers were set along a pipe another four feet above his head. Barnard blinked at him, eyes glazed. Bob raised his eyebrows in question. Barnard flicked his head, then looked up, examining the sprinkler head.

He leaned in again. A shiver went down Bob’s spine at Barnard’s breath against his ear. “You’ll have to get on my shoulders,” he whispered.

Bob scowled at him. _No!_ he mouthed.

Barnard simply smirked and shrugged.

Bob huffed and pouted. Why did this always happen to him? Buoyant Bob Barnard should be the one getting on _his_ shoulders! Bob fingered the lighter in his pocket and squinted at the sprinkler head again. This was his revenge, he reminded himself. He ought to be the one to activate the sprinkler.

 _Fine,_ he mouthed, rolling his eyes.

Barnard grinned and hitched up his pants. Bob frowned when he crouched in front of him, hands at the ready.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Getting down so you can climb on,” Barnard hissed back, looking up at him.

“Not that way!” Bob whispered, feeling as though the vein on his temple might explode. Bob Braindead Barnard tilted his head in innocent confusion.

“I am not sitting on your face, Barnard!” Bob said, exasperated. “There’d be no way to balance-”

“I’ll hold your posterior,” Barnard said, spreading his fingers.

“Just- turn around,” Bob ordered.

Barnard pivoted on his feet. “Suit yourself,” he said, holding his hands up for Bob to grab on.

Bob took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. He engaged a quick calming technique that he often used in stressful situations. He imagined he was naked, swimming in a crystal blue pool. He reached the tiled edge of the pool and pulled himself out. The water dripped at his feet and evaporated, leaving him fresh, clean and dry. Before him was laid an immaculate three-piece suit with a crisp bow tie and pocket square. He slid silk boxers up his legs-

“Bob?” Barnard whispered, craning his head around. “Are you getting on or not?”

Bob let out his breath in a rush. He squared his shoulders. Everything he did, he did for vengeance. “Yes,” he said, “stay still.”

He took Barnard’s hands. Barnard tightened his grip quickly, sliding his fingers between Bob’s. Bob relaxed, appreciating the extra dexterity. He wedged one leg around Barnard’s head and tucked his calf behind his back. Barnard gave him a moment to catch his balance, then unwound from his crouch. Bob quickly tucked his other leg behind his back, squeezing his buttocks together for stability.

Once they were steady, Bob squeezed his right hand and let go. He dug his fingers in his pocket and pulled out the lighter.

“A little to the left,” he whispered, clutching the lighter against the side of Barnard’s head, thick hair tickling between his fingertips.

When they were directly underneath the sprinkler head, Bob lifted his arm. With Barnard’s extra height, the pipe was only six inches or so above his head. He flicked the lighter on and held the flame next to it.

A girl on stage was explaining how to make beaded tchotchkes. Bob tried not to get distracted by her terrible directions.

He glared at the sprinkler, his thumb growing hot. “Why isn’t it-”

There was a click, repeated down the pipe on both sides. Then the sprinkler head flicked on and Bob’s eyes were sprayed with water.

He was distantly aware of shrieks below. He clutched Barnard’s head and wiped desperately at his face. There was a swaying motion, and then his toes knocked against the catwalk. He unfurled himself from Barnard’s back, unable to see. Barnard pulled him down the walkway, darting through a series of deluges, to the other side of the theater. They stopped when they reached the wall and turned back to watch the chaos.

“Look at them run!” Barnard called, hair soaked flat to his forehead. Bob realized that an alarm was blaring, muffling the screams of the Pageant girls. The judges were stuck at the back of the line leaving the theater. They did not look happy. One woman whacked another over the head with her clipboard. The other woman turned, furious, and tackled her.

Bob guffawed. He gave his head a wet shake, giddy. They were drenched, a nearby downpour misting their faces.

He turned to Barnard, grinning. Whoever said that vengeance did not feed the soul had obviously never done it right. The outrage, hurt and frustration from earlier had been swept away, replaced by glorious, rapturous joy. He squeezed Barnard’s hand, not registering that it was still clasped in his. Barnard met his eyes.

It wasn’t conscious, what passed between them, but it was deep and it was altering. Bob watched Barnard’s eyes flick between his, then his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. The alarm blared in the distance, the screams and calls of departing pageant girls far below. Water sprinkled their toes.

Bob leaned in.

Barnard met him halfway, his free hand wrapping around his neck. Bob closed his eyes, too overwhelmed to process what was happening. Then Barnard’s mouth was against his, and something flared up inside him, something hungry and powerful.

Barnard pushed him against the railing. Bob wrapped his arms around his back, holding him close. Their hips collided, and Bob's mouth opened automatically when Barnard ground against him. Barnard groaned and ran his palm against Bob’s jaw. Bob breathed through his nose and drowned, heart pounding.

Barnard kissed him like he was desperate to tell him something, desperate to be understood. Bob nipped upwards, doing his best to follow along.

The railing dug into his back. Bob leaned against it for leverage, chasing Barnard’s hot tongue-

“The Fire Department is here!” someone announced below.

They broke apart, breathing harshly. Barnard stared at him, pupils blown wide.

“Oh, fuck,” Bob said, returned abruptly to reality.

“Make some room,” a man called. Several figures in yellow hazard suits pushed into the theater. “Where’s the water shutoff?” someone asked.

Barnard swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. Bob thought his hands were shaking.

“Let’s go,” Barnard rasped and pushed past him, not meeting his eyes.

They clanked down the catwalk to the ladder. Barnard swung himself around and practically flew down the steps. He was halfway to the exit by the time Bob’s feet once again met solid ground.

A firefighter pushed through the doors before Barnard could reach them. He stopped dead at the sight of them, dripping in their tailored suits, shoes squelching.

“Just came through to see if we could help,” Barnard explained, mayoral charm on full wattage. He slapped the firefighter on the shoulder. “Turns out, we can’t!” He saluted and, before the firefighter could open his mouth to respond, he was gone.

Bob hurried after him. “Thank you for your service,” he called over his shoulder and pushed through the doors.

He found Barnard in the crowded entryway, one arm around a bewildered Magnolia. Bob stopped a few steps away, uncertain.

Barnard met his eyes and just as quickly looked down. Bob felt his brow furrow.

Barnard looked up again, but this time it was Hot Bob Barnard, future candidate for Mayor, who regarded him. Bob recognized the plastic-y set of his features.

“Can you believe this, Bob?” he asked, voice jovial. “Looks like your girl will have another chance after all, since the Pageant’s been rescheduled on account of all the water.”

“Hmm,” Bob said noncommittally, trying not to feel as though the ground had given way beneath his feet. He found it hard to catch his breath. “It’s a real soggy cobbler,” he murmured.

Barnard paused, then turned to his daughter. “C’mon, then,” he said. “What a waste this day's turned out to be! Let’s go home.” He slung Magnolia’s pageant bag over his shoulder and prodded her toward the door. “Bob,” he nodded over his shoulder, and then they were gone.

Bob stared through the glass at their retreating backs. He tried to understand what had happened to reveal such gaping holes of uncertainty and need inside him, holes he’d never noticed before.

Surely Barnard and he hadn’t just-

He laughed at himself, a huff of doubt and exasperation.

Barnard had helped him exact his revenge, and that was all. He’d been a surprisingly good partner in crime. But to suggest that only minutes before, they’d been wrapped together like grape vines on a latticework fence-

It was not possible, he told himself. There was no way that he’d been the one to lean in, or that Barnard had pushed him against the railing-

No, he told himself. Delusions must be a side-effect of the anti-depressants.

It was the only logical conclusion, so there was no point in thinking further about it. He’d talk to the doctor about his dosage.

He straightened his drenched suit coat, patted at his toupee, and walked toward the exit with conviction.

**Author's Note:**

> (Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/christah88) for painfully slow updates on the progress of my YA sci-fi novel. I haven't actually written any updates yet, that's how slow they are.)


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